The glass falls like petals in my hands
A trail of candy
To nowhere sweet
I have collection points
Different places
Each place has a meaning
Each piece of glass a different use
But the same use
You know
I touch the edges
Trap the dirt on the skin of my fingers
Wipe my fingers on my jacket
Lick my fingers clean
I do not falter in my collection
I falter looking up
I do not know what the postman wants
From me
Perhaps I should give him my name
It’s only letters after all
I fold the bag in the dark
Ready for tomorrow
My collection
I look at my bare feet
Hot and bulging under the blanket
A little brown
It would be easy now
To touch me
To find the trail of blood inside
Maybe that’s what the postman wants
To touch me
The bag rustles like splinters
Acorn blades passing by the window
Tears I would rather not own
chopping cutting choking
I swallow emotion
Like splinters
No sweet candy
In my hand
I will wait for next time.
